


Mistakes

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Other, Present Tense, Spanking, non-sexual discipline fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-26
Updated: 2010-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make mistakes... we make mistakes because the easiest and most comfortable course for us is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions - especially selfish ones.”<br/>-Alexander Solzhenitsyn</p><p>This is a spanking fic. Not in the sexy slashy way, either: in the corporal punishment way dreamed up by demented people like me. You've been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, make no money, and mean no harm. This fic contains
> 
> -The semi-consensual spanking of an adult by his supervisor.  
> -A serial killer and not-too-graphic mentions of blood and death.  
> -Adult language.  
> -Angst.  
> -A suspicious lack of actual cuddling.
> 
> If any of that is not your cup of tea, for God's sake, go play somewhere else.

_**“It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make mistakes... we make mistakes because the easiest and most comfortable course for us is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions - especially selfish ones.”**  
-Alexander Solzhenitsyn_

It isn’t always like this. Some days, Spencer can go to work and feel like he’s making a difference. He reminds himself that he’s doing this job for people who need him. That the work he does saves lives, and helps contribute to information about violent offenders and what factors can make a situation all go wrong.

Today isn’t one of those days. At least four teenagers are dead and another is missing, and as far as he can see, they’re not doing a damn thing about it.

“The unsub is a white male, between the ages of 27 and 32,” Morgan says, his eyes trained on the policemen waiting for their orders. “He comes from a working-class background, probably the product of a broken home, and is of above average intelligence, but dropped out of school or never attended college and is working in a menial job, maybe as a clerk at a gas station or a pizza delivery boy. He’s selecting high-risk victims and assuming that no one will notice they’re missing, or connect the disappearances.”

“He has all the attributes of a sexual sadist,” Rossi continues. “Even beyond the torture of the boys, he’s not overly sentimental. He’s not selecting his victims based on appearances, and he doesn’t form any sort of attachment to them. We can tell this from the way he disposes of the bodies – after they’ve served their purpose, he’s done with them. Although it’s impossible to tell from the lack of information about the time of abduction, it’s likely that he kills his victims within the first 48 hours.”

Rossi clears his throat before he goes on; it’s obvious the case is getting to him, too. “Right now we’re proceeding with the assumption that Trevor Grant is still alive,” he says. “The geographical radius Dr. Reid has put together based on the dump sites and the park where Trevor was kidnapped indicates that he’s living in the city itself. He may be keeping his victims quiet by gagging them, drugging them, or by keeping them in a soundproof room, possibly a basement or garage. He lives alone, possibly in a small house inherited from his parents. He won’t have many close friends. In fact, some of the neighbors may have always thought he was odd.”

“Right now, our primary objective is recovering Trevor Grant,” Hotch says. His mouth is grim and his eyes are serious. “We know this isn’t much to go on, but our technical analyst is combing through the White Oaks neighborhood in particular, looking at property records and obituaries that might indicate our unsub’s parents passing away approximately two months ago. His father’s passing in particular may have been the stressor that made him snap.”

“While we wait on that information and cross-reference any results with the profile, manpower should be directed to increased patrolling and surveillance of the park. We’ll also be conducting interviews of the boy’s friends, to see if any of them remember Trevor talking with anyone unusual in the past two days, or report any sudden changes in behavior.”

The Deputy Inspector raises his hand awkwardly before speaking. “And now that we have a profile, can we schedule a press conference?” he wants to know. Reid clicks his tongue in frustration.

“For the time being, we’re asking that you not alert the media,” Hotch answers, with a sideways look at Reid. “A press conference would be ill-advised, both in that it would alert the unsub to our presence on the case, and that any mention of a possible serial killer will create widespread panic.”

“So you’re saying we can’t tell the civilians that there’s a serial killer on the loose and he may have one of our boys?” another officer challenges.

“I’m saying it would be inadvisable, counterproductive, and would likely interfere with the investigation,” Hotch says sharply. “The unsub’s continued actions are dependent on his thinking that he hasn’t been noticed. Sexual sadists can often stop killing for months or even years if the pressure gets too high, and right now, we don’t have enough information on him to make a definite identification. We need him to believe the killings have gone unobserved, and with any luck, he’ll give us enough to make an arrest and an airtight case.”

“And just allow him to keep torturing boys until you finally figure out who he is?” the officer asks angrily.

“We hope it won’t have to come to that,” Hotch says, looking him in the eyes without flinching. “As long as Trevor is alive, we don’t have to worry about the unsub abducting anyone else. And that’s why finding Trevor is our priority, and why creating a media circus and a terrified city will only slow us down.”

“But we can alert the victims’ families?” the Deputy Inspector presses.

“At this time, we need any information about a connection between the cases to stay out of the news,” Rossi reiterates, with a look to Hotch that says, _I got this._ “Once we’ve apprehended the suspect, they will be the first to be notified.”

It’s bullshit. The detectives in the room know it, and Spencer knows it, and he’s pretty sure that Hotch and Rossi know it, too. Four families have lost sons, and a fifth is going out of its mind wondering what could have happened to the 16-year-old who went to shoot hoops after school yesterday and never made it home.

Spencer isn’t the only one who wants to object, and Rossi can clearly sense it, because he claps his hands to wrap up the meeting. “All right, people, thank you for your time,” he says. “Inspector Davis can let you all know what your patrolling schedules will be; you’ll know more as soon as we do.”

The briefing over, the crowds disperse, until Spencer feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s Morgan.

“Hey,” he says in a low voice. “I know it’s bothering you – look, it’s bothering me too – but you know Hotch is right, man. You helped create the profile.”

“I know what I said,” Spencer snaps defensively. “I just think we could at least let the families know, out of some sense of common decency…”

“Reid.” This time it’s Hotch, and he shoots a meaningful glance to where some of the detectives are still lingering by the door, clearly within earshot. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

“Look, four teenagers are dead, that we know of – ” Reid starts, but Hotch cuts him off.

“And we’re trying to keep another alive. We’ll talk about it later.”

Spencer knows he’s right, but he can’t get the faces of the dead boys out of his mind, or the faces of their parents. One of them had his father’s bright blue eyes; another must have had his mother’s lips.

Amelia Grant is waiting outside in the lobby, nervous fingers clenching and unclenching as she scans the faces of the policemen, hoping for news. She hasn’t slept, he knows, and the blank, frustrated looks she receives make her drop her head into her hands, taking a deep breath.

Hotch and Morgan are up ahead talking to Inspector Davis, and a quick scanning of the room shows that Rossi and Prentiss are nowhere to be found.

Spencer doesn’t have to think twice. He’s beside Mrs. Grant in two strides, and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Mrs. Grant? I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, and I’m with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I just wanted to let you know that we’re doing everything in our power to find the man who has your son.”

She looks at him with wet eyes and clumping mascara. “A man has my son?” she whispers, and he remembers just how out of his depth he is in these situations.

“It’s a possibility,” he says hastily. “We can’t say anything for certain, and we would prefer it if you… didn’t say anything about it until we know more. I just wanted you to know that we’re doing the best we can.”

It sounds pathetic and thin even to him, but Mrs. Grant presses her lips together and nods as new tears begin to stream down her face. “Thank you,” she chokes.

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Spencer says, gingerly patting her arm. “I… uh, I’d better go get back to work.”

\---

Garcia has turned up four deceased individuals in the White Oaks area survived by sons in the right age bracket. Of the sons, one lives in California, one is a married father of two, and Dwight Irving and Raymond Marcus are unaccounted for.

“Can you get me the addresses, baby girl?” Morgan asks, then smiles as Garcia responds.

“One step ahead of you. Irving is at 118 LaVergne Place, and Marcus is 2113 Frasier Court.”

“That’s my girl. We’re on it.” Morgan snaps the phone shut. “SWAT teams to both locations?” he asks.

Rossi nods. “You, me, and Prentiss to LaVergne Place. Hotch and Reid, take Frasier Court.”

“Done.”

Spencer takes a deep, steadying breath as Hotch pulls the car to the side of the road. No matter how many times they’ve done this, there’s something unnerving about bursting into a house, waving a gun.

“FBI!” Hotch calls, taking the lead as usual. Spencer and the SWAT team follow, guns at the ready. They check every room, calls of “clear!” echoing through the empty house.

Spencer slams the bedroom door against the wall, making sure no one is hiding behind it. The closet checks out, too, and even as he makes note of the objects on the bed, he kicks the bedskirt out of the way, revealing nothing but some imposing dust bunnies.

“Clear!” he shouts, then “Hotch – you need to come see this!”

It’s clear that Marcus has left in a hurry, and in his haste, abandoned some unfortunate possessions on the bed. Torn and blood-soaked cloths, probably scraps of clothing, are in full view, and manila ropes tied to the bedposts have been hastily cut. From where he’s standing, Spencer can see a steak knife and several long, thin skewers, all covered in what appears to be fresh blood.

As pounding footsteps echo through the empty house, he becomes aware that a television facing the bed is on, and turns slowly.

_“– here now with Amelia Grant, whose son Trevor is believed to have been kidnapped by the killer. Mrs. Grant?”_

On-screen, the woman’s hands shake a little as she holds up a yearbook photo of her missing son.

 _“This is my boy, Trevor,”_ she says, her voice growing in strength as she speaks. _“He was going to shoot hoops yesterday after school at Whitfield Park, and he… he never came home.”_

“What is this?” Hotch asks, coming in to find Spencer staring at the screen.

 _“The FBI is in town investigating a serial killer who goes after boys like my Trevor,”_ Mrs. Grant continues. _“Please, if you have any information – ”_

“Someone leaked this?” Hotch asks, eyes widening.

“Not now,” Spencer interrupts, with a meaningful jerk of his head toward the bed. “Marcus left in a hurry, and probably with the boy still alive.”

“No pieces left behind,” Hotch agrees, then raises his voice so the SWAT team, standing cautiously in the doorway, can hear him.

“We need this house to be guarded in case he comes back. For now, we need to put most of our efforts into finding where he might have taken the boy. Reid.”

“Yes, sir?” Spencer asks, the ‘sir’ slipping out the way it always does when he’s nervous.

“Have Morgan, Rossi and Prentiss meet us back at the station.”

“Yes, sir.” Spencer pulls out his cell phone and dials Morgan, half-listening as Hotch tries to reach Garcia.

“Morgan? It’s Marcus. He... he must have heard we were coming, and he’s gone. With Trevor, probably still alive. We’re regrouping at the station.”

 _“Shit,”_ Morgan swears, then “Okay, Reid, we’ll meet you there. Rossi – turn around. We’re heading back to the station.” The call disconnects, and Reid is following Hotch back out to the car.

“Anything we can use,” Hotch says into the phone. “Tax records, employment history. Anything that might give us a clue where he’s headed. Vehicle information, too.”

Spencer buckles his seatbelt fastidiously and studies the display. His heart is racing, and he genuinely can’t believe this is happening. And it might be his fault.

Then again, what the hell was the woman thinking? Holding a press conference of her own, after he had specifically told her not to say anything. He bites his lip, aware that he’s trying to diffuse responsibility. Trying to assuage the guilt that’s rising up inside him, making him want to puke.

If this kid dies, it’ll be entirely his fault.

“As a home health aide?” Hotch repeats, his face darkening. “Garcia, I need the number of the company _now.”_

\---

All exits out of town are under surveillance, all units out looking for a navy blue 2004 Honda Civic. And in the meantime, Spencer is riding with Morgan and Emily on the way to 88 Carpenter Ridge, where Mr. Horace Nicholson isn’t answering his phone.

“If he’s in there, this could turn into a double hostage situation,” Prentiss says, fingers drumming nervously against the dash. She licks her lips. “It could get ugly.”

“Yeah,” Reid agrees weakly. Morgan keeps his eyes on the road. They don’t have time or breath to waste on things everyone already knows, but no one begrudges Emily her thinking out loud.

The tension in the air is palpable, and they all have to cope with what they might find once they arrive on the scene.

“Mr. Nicholson had a stroke in April and was released from in-patient care just two weeks ago,” Reid says, scanning the printout for information. “He’s still getting most of his motor skills back and may not be able to speak…”

“Which would make him a perfect victim,” Emily finishes.

“Can’t call for help, can’t do anything to stop Marcus,” Morgan agrees. “And the neighbors would be used to seeing Marcus’s car and not think twice about it.” He speeds up again, probably going twenty above the limit. No cop is going to stop them now, not when they’re focused on Raymond Marcus.

They arrive at the house before the SWAT team, and Spencer’s heart leaps to his throat when he sees a blue Civic parked in the driveway.

“The car is here,” Morgan says clearly. “Repeat, Marcus’s car is here. We may need more backup.”

Morgan and Emily are out of the car even as the SWAT van pulls up, running towards the house with guns at the ready. Spencer is almost paralyzed. He can’t think about what he might see if he goes into that house. The blood on those knives and skewers, the pictures of the other crime scenes – and if Trevor Grant and Horace Nicholson are dead, it’s all his fault. _All your fault,_ a voice in his head whispers, over and over, taunting him.

“FBI!” he hears Emily shout, and a moment later the front door is crashing open. He unbuckles his seatbelt and leaps out of the car, following behind them.

The foyer is dark and empty. It’s clear that Horace Nicholson’s house isn’t being lived in anymore, not really. There’s an oppressive stillness about it, broken only by the slamming doors and shouts of “FBI!” ahead of him.

“FBI! Drop the knife _now_!” Emily yells, and Spencer darts to the right.

He catches sight of Emily in the second doorway on the left, her gun trained on someone he can’t see, and jumps into line behind her. He can hear Morgan and the SWAT team surrounding the house, blocking it off.

Raymond Marcus is standing by a bed. Trevor Grant lies spread-eagled, tied to the posts, his own bloody clothes shoved into his mouth. There’s no sign of Horace Nicholson, but this looks like an unused guest room. Spencer prays briefly that someone else will find Nicholson safe, even unaware of what’s going on inside his home.

“Drop the knife!” Emily repeats, and Spencer’s eyes are drawn back to Trevor Grant. He’s naked, torso slashed with a dozen shallow cuts, and Raymond Marcus is holding another steak knife flush against the boy’s throat.

“So help me, God,” he says in a low growl, “if you come any closer, I will cut him open.”

“That won’t do you any good,” Emily calls. “We have the house surrounded. There’s no way out of this one, Marcus.”

“If you fire, there’s no way to know my hand won’t slip,” he rasps. Trevor’s eyes meet Spencer’s, begging him wordlessly.

Morgan’s voice comes over the earbud. “We’ve got Nicholson,” he says. “He’s alive. Coming your way.”

“Your hand slips, and there’s no way you make it out of here alive,” Emily replies crisply. “I won’t make it neat, either. I’ll send it through your throat so you bleed out in more agony than you’ve ever experienced.”

She’ll do it, too; Spencer knows. The cases with kids are the hardest. They bring that reaction out in everybody. That ability to see the unsub as an object rather than a human.

Marcus’s eyes narrow. He can tell as well as Spencer can that she’s not bluffing.

“Drop the knife, and we bring you in unharmed,” Emily says. Morgan arrives behind them with two uniforms, and Spencer can see the SWAT team gathering at the window.

Marcus’s eyes travel down to the knife in his hand. It’s shaking just a little, and Trevor’s breathing gets louder, a stifled whine coming through his makeshift gag.

“Don’t think I won’t do it,” Emily warns, and Morgan and Spencer pointedly follow her aim with their own guns.

“The choice is yours, Marcus,” Emily says, and in a sudden movement, he springs away from the bed and lets his knife clatter to the floor. Morgan and Emily are on top of him in an instant, knocking him to the ground and cuffing him as Spencer springs to Trevor Grant.

“It’s okay,” he says, tugging the bloody rags from the teenager’s mouth and hastily sawing through the ropes. “We’re getting you an ambulance. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

He can hardly believe it himself – it seems like they almost got too lucky with this one – but the suspect is in custody, victim recovered in one piece, if not entirely unharmed, and minimal damage done by the shift in location. They stay with Trevor until the ambulance arrives.

\---

“If I could have everyone’s attention for a minute, please,” Hotch says loudly, and the entire room looks up. The way he phrases it doesn’t make it any less a command.

“We were extremely lucky to bring Raymond Marcus in today with no fatalities,” Hotch says, and Spencer already knows where this is going. His heart sinks in his chest.

“As some of you are aware, we almost lost him due to a leaked report that the FBI was in town and investigating the kidnappings as a serial killer,” Hotch continues.

Spencer winces in dismay. Hotch’s mouth is tight, his voice angry. And he has every reason to be.

“Now, I understand it must have been difficult not to give Mrs. Grant all the information we had available,” he says, sounding anything but understanding, “but I made it extremely clear that reports of FBI involvement were not to leave this task force. Trevor Grant could have died because of this breach, and we’re all damn lucky that we were able to resolve the situation. Frankly, the odds of recovering Trevor were stacked against us.”

Everyone in the room is watching Hotch warily, silent, guilt across their faces, even though they’re not to blame. A kid could have died, and they all would have taken it personally. Spencer swallows.

“Again, I understand the need to let Mrs. Grant know that we were doing everything we could to bring her son home safely,” Hotch says. “But in this case, it was unacceptable, and I see no recourse other than disciplinary action and possible sanctions.”

A murmur rises up suddenly, as the gathered locals exchange quick looks, trying to determine who leaked it, and whether they plan on coming forward.

“We will be questioning Mrs. Grant to determine the source of the report,” Hotch says meaningfully, and Spencer knows it’s time to come clean. It still takes a moment for him to find his voice.

“Ah, Hotch?” he asks awkwardly. “I… wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

He’s hoping that Hotch will get the hint and wait until they’re somewhere a little less public, but Hotch merely raises his eyebrows.

“Yes?” he asks.

Spencer blanches. Swallows. “I take full responsibility for the information getting out,” he says carefully.

Hotch meets his gaze, steady and uncompromising. “Are you saying that you told Mrs. Grant that you were with the FBI and we were looking for someone in connection with the disappearance?” Every eye in the room is fixed on the two of them.

“I – I,” Spencer stammers. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“You’re sorry,” Hotch repeats, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “Reid –” he begins. Stops, changes his mind. “We’ll be talking about this later,” he says in an undertone, then raises his voice.

“I’m sorry for the lecture, everyone. You’ve all performed well today, and thanks to our quick response, Trevor Grant is still alive. You should all be very proud of your work.”

There’s some scattered nodding, then the normal chatter resumes, with the occasional curious glance to the front of the room where the BAU team are still standing, Rossi with his arms folded across his chest, Morgan and Prentiss packing up supplies and pretending they aren’t paying any attention. Spencer biting his lip and avoiding Hotch’s penetrating gaze.

“Dave,” Hotch says, still not taking his eyes off Spencer.

“Yeah?” Rossi responds.

“If you can manage the cleanup here, I think Reid and I are going to have a word back at the hotel,” Hotch says.

Spencer draws in his breath sharply at that, but it’s nothing more than he expected, really.

“No problem,” Rossi says. “We’ve got it covered. We’ll see you back there, in, uhhh…” He glances up at the clock. “Is forty-five minutes enough?”

“You’d better make it an hour,” Hotch tells him, and Spencer cringes again. “Reid.”

He follows Hotch automatically, past the strange faces full of judgment and guarded disapproval, even as he thinks with every step that he would rather just take off running in another direction.

He deserves this. And he deserves whatever censure Hotch is going to apply, whatever… _disciplinary actions_ the man thinks are necessary.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Hotch asks bluntly, turning the key in the ignition before buckling his seatbelt. He looks at Spencer like he’s waiting for an answer. Like he really wants to know whatever is going on in Spencer’s head.

“I… honestly don’t know, Hotch,” Spencer says in a small voice. He looks down at the floorboard of the care, tapping one foot nervously.

“So you went behind my back, disobeyed a directive and knowingly endangered the entire operation for no good reason,” Hotch suggests.

“I – no!” Spencer protests, hearing his words twisted that way. Hotch knows exactly why he did what he did. He just wants to hear Spencer admit it. Apologize. “That’s not what happened,” he says, a little lame.

“Why don’t you tell me what did happen, then?” Hotch asks. His hands are gripping the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. There’s a lot of strength in those hands, Spencer knows.

“I told her to keep it quiet,” Spencer says, and he can hear the excuse in his voice, the slight it’s-not-my-fault whine. He hates himself for how pathetic he sounds. “I just – Hotch, I know no one should have known we were looking into it, but she was missing her son! I had to tell her something.”

“And you really thought she could keep it quiet long enough for us to identify and apprehend the unsub, without alerting him to our presence?”

“I hoped so!” Spencer isn’t sure why this always happens to him. Why he’s always the one to get caught out, why Hotch always points these things out in that voice that makes him feel young and stupid. “I did tell her not to mention anything, Hotch, I swear –”

“And you thought she would just understand, without any explanation or any kind of briefing,” Hotch says. “When apparently _you_ didn’t fully understand the situation, even after developing a profile that made it clear that the unsub was likely a flight risk if he suspected we were onto him.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says again, sincerely. “I really am. I didn’t think it would do any harm –”

“Imagine how you would feel if it had done more harm than it did,” Hotch says quietly, and that’s all Spencer needs to hear. He slumps down in his seat, any further protests effectively quashed.

They continue the drive in silence; the hotel is only a few minutes from the station, and as he parks the van, Hotch speaks again. He’s less angry now, and more regretful.

“I do understand where you’re coming from, Reid,” he says. “It’s hard to make the right call sometimes on the job.”

“She was in so much pain,” Spencer remembers. Her hopeless eyes, and the way her hands had twisted nervously. “I just wanted to help her.”

“I know.”

Spencer follows Hotch through the hotel lobby and into the elevator. The Unit Chief is tired; he presses the first two fingers of each hand against his temples, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t even know what I can say here,” he admits.

“I – I’m sorry?” Spencer tries. “What do you mean? Aren’t you… going to lecture me or something?”

The elevator dings and the doors open. Hotch pulls out the key to the room. “I don’t know, Reid,” he says heavily. “I wonder whether it will do any good. You know exactly what you did wrong, and the reasons behind not releasing any information, yet you still did it.”

Spencer knows it’s true, but the disappointment in Hotch’s voice right now is much worse than anger. He flushes, miserable. “I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, almost pleading for the older man to believe him. “I am.”

Hotch gestures toward the hotel sofa, faded maroon with a hideous gold floral pattern. “Sit.”

Spencer obeys wordlessly, gazing imploringly up at Hotch as he plants himself neatly on the side of the couch. His body is humming with nervous energy, but he wills himself to stay still.

He still can’t believe how much he fucked up today. How badly things might have ended.

“Let me ask you something, Reid,” Hotch says. His eyes are dark and serious. “Why did you go behind my back and speak to Mrs. Grant?”

It’s a reasonable question. Given all the overwhelming reasons to keep the investigation quiet, why did Spencer just decide to break protocol, go against a strict directive and jeopardize the investigation?

“She was so worried, and no one was telling her anything,” he says in a small voice. He looks down at his hands, clenching nervously against the arm of the sofa. Remembers Mrs. Grant in the police station, the way she twisted her hands together over and over, squeezing unconsciously. “I thought she deserved to know that she wasn’t being ignored.”

Hotch lets out a heavy sigh, taking a seat in the chair opposite the sofa. “I understand how difficult it must have been to see her in that much pain,” he says. “You know I do, and that’s not the issue here, Spencer.”

He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s slipped into calling Spencer by his first name.

“Tell me what the issue is,” he orders, and Spencer takes a shallow breath.

“I disobeyed a directive,” he says in a small voice. “I went against your orders and I endangered the investigation and the victim by leaking information to an unstable source. I tipped the killer off, causing him to run, and almost caused the deaths of a teenager and a helpless old man.” His voice is breaking by the end, and he knows he’s about to start crying from the shame. The pressure is building up behind his eyes, and it would be a catharsis, it would be a relief.

It would make him look weak.

“Indirectly,” Hotch says, and he’s disappointed, yes, but he’s also looking at Spencer with something like pity. “You indirectly tipped Marcus off, but that wasn’t your fault. You had no way of knowing what would happen, and if he had killed again – and thank God he didn’t – you couldn’t have held yourself responsible.”

“I should have,” Spencer chokes. “I should have known, Hotch, I – I should have known Mrs. Grant couldn’t keep it quiet, and I did know that Raymond Marcus would try to run if he thought someone was on to him…”

“You can’t always be right, Spencer,” Hotch says. It’s getting hard to see the expression on his face, as Spencer’s eyes are misty with frustration and regret.

“I should be,” he says again. “I should have been able to read her, to see that far ahead. I was… I was doing a sloppy job.”

“It’s human error, and human compassion,” Hotch says evenly. “And like it or not, you’re just as human as the rest of us.”

“I should have known.” In his mind, there’s no excuse. There are reasons, yes, but not excuses. “It – it would have been all my fault.” Spencer’s trying to hold it together, but the magnitude is hitting him like a ton of bricks, and he’s not sure he can do this.

“Spencer.” He jerks his head up to meet Hotch’s eyes. “There are too many factors at play for you to make that call, and I hope you realize that. Human error, human variability. It’s what the job is about.”

“I know,” Spencer says. “I just – ” He stops, not sure that he can go on without breaking down.

“Your actions today played a part in the variables, yes, and you should have known better,” Hotch says. “You did know better. But the situation was resolved, and you can’t spend your life thinking in terms of regrets and missed opportunities.”

“You’re angry,” Spencer half-whispers. “You’re… disappointed.” He can barely grind out the last word. The room is too hot, and he can feel Hotch’s eyes on him.

“You can’t assume that the entire case rested on one mistake,” Hotch says. Logically. “It didn’t. We were able to salvage it and make the best of it.”

“No thanks to me; that was Garcia and Emily,” Spencer says, but Hotch shakes his head.

“I’m proud of everyone on my team,” he says.

And that does it. The first tears start leaking out of Spencer’s eyes, finally, burning their way down his cheeks. “I screwed up so badly,” he sobs. “I just… I didn’t…”

“Reid.” Hotch’s hand is on Spencer’s arm, warm and reassuring. “It’s okay.”

“I’m never going to… anything… never,” Spencer tries, the words not quite articulated around his hitching breath.

“I know.” It takes a good two to three minutes of Spencer trying to get himself back under control, shuddering cries stifled, tamped down until they slow back into semi-regular breathing.

“I’m never going to do anything like that again,” Spencer says finally. He looks Hotch in the eyes, pleading. “I…. never.”

“I know that,” Hotch says seriously. “You’ve given yourself a better reminder of why the rules are in place than I ever could.”

Spencer looks up at him. Hotch’s hand is still resting just below his elbow. It shouldn’t be comforting him.

“Does that mean you’re not going to – punish me?” he asks cautiously.

Hotch just meets his gaze, inscrutable. “Do you deserve to be punished?” he asks.

Spencer glances at the clock. Rossi and the rest of the team won’t be back for at least half an hour.

It might not be what he wants, but it’s what he needs. “Yes,” he says softly. “Yes, sir.”

Hotch nods briefly and stands up, loosening his tie and threading it out of his shirt. “I’m proud of you for admitting that,” he says, crossing over to sit beside Spencer on the couch. “I’m not going to be going easy on you.”

“I know,” Spencer says. He stands up slowly, looks at Hotch, and then unbuttons his khakis without being asked. He slips out of them neatly, folding them over and setting them on the chair. He makes his way – still dragging his feet a little – back to the sofa, and drapes himself awkwardly over Hotch’s lap. He’s a little too big to be lying across the couch, and his feet hang off one end, his arms and head resting on the other arm.

“We both know why you’re here, Reid,” Hotch says, but there’s no sternness in his voice, or any lingering disappointment.

“Yes, sir,” Spencer answers.

Hotch rests his hand on Spencer’s back, and again, the weight is more comforting than it has any right to be. “You disobeyed a directive,” he says.

“And I leaked information and put the entire case at risk – ” Spencer begins, but Hotch stops him.

“That’s enough,” he says. “You made a bad judgment call. This isn’t about your judgment. It’s about going behind my back and disobeying me.”

Spencer is half-tempted to argue, to tell Hotch he deserves to be punished more, but even as he wonders how he would begin to ask for that, he feels the man’s hand lift from between his shoulder blades.

“You know better than to disregard an order,” Hotch says, bringing his hand down sharply on Spencer’s thin boxers. The sting blossoms immediately, and before Spencer even has time to gasp in pain, Hotch spanks him again, setting his other cheek on fire.

Spencer hears a small whimper in the back of his throat, and he’s ashamed of it, but at this point it has less to do with the pain of the spanking and more to do with the guilt still eating him up inside. Although he’s sure the spanking will be painful enough in no time.

“When I issue a directive like that, you can be sure it’s not something I take lightly,” Hotch continues. “I don’t give orders because I need to be in control, or because I want to hear myself talk. There are solid reasons behind the decisions we make, and you need to understand and respect that.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer agrees, tensing up despite himself. He knows the clenched muscles will only make it hurt more later on, and increase the possibility of bruising, but he can’t seem to help it. The tears are building up again, and Hotch’s hand is smacking down relentlessly.

“If you have a question about an order, or the way we’re proceeding with a particular case, you come to me and discuss it,” Hotch says. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer grits out. The pain is getting to him now, every stinging slap a reminder of just how important this is, searing itself into his skin. “I’m sorry!” His voice is high and uncontrolled.

“Any subversion of a strategy can affect the entire team,” Hotch says. “There is a chain of command for a reason. To coordinate a plan, to execute it as easily as possible, and to directly ensure that the most expedient and effective course of action is followed.”

Spencer is losing control again rapidly, the emotional exhaustion and physical pain combining to make him shake slightly over Hotch’s knees, and begin to cry again. The sobs are smaller this time, tamer, and he gives in, pressing his face into the padded arm of the sofa as Hotch continues spanking him.

“The best profiler in the world can make mistakes,” Hotch says plainly, loud enough for Spencer to hear even over his muffled sobs. “You can’t blame yourself for failing to fully evaluate a situation. But you need to understand and accept that you are a part of a team, and you are accountable to us. You need to be responsible about following directives and working with the rest of us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer promises through the tears. “I do, and I’m so, so sorry, sir.”

“I know,” Hotch says, and he lays six hard swats down on the backs of Spencer’s thighs. Spencer howls in surprised pain, but realizes a moment later that the spanking has stopped, and Hotch’s hand is once again placed on his back.

“I know you’ll never do anything like that again,” he says, and it’s less a command than an affirmation. He rubs tentative circles on Spencer’s back, soothing him back down again.

“No,” Spencer chokes. “No, I won’t. I’ve learned my lesson – ”

“And now you can start to move on,” Hotch says. He exhales heavily, then pats Spencer’s shoulder in a way that isn’t entirely relaxed, but is reassuring anyway. “‘All men make mistakes, but only wise men learn from their mistakes.’”

Spencer pulls himself slowly off of Hotch’s lap, looking into his eyes. “That’s Winston Churchill,” he says, curious.

Hotch nods. “It seemed appropriate. You do learn from your mistakes,” he says, giving credit where it’s due.

Spencer colors a little at the cautious praise and his residual shame. “I just wish it didn’t come at a price,” he admits.

“That price wasn’t too high today,” Hotch says. “You remember this one, and it won’t be in the future.”

They sit like that for a moment, beside each other on the couch, Spencer feeling every inch of his backside pressing into the fabric. Hotch claps a hand on his knee. “You’ve learned your lesson, and you’ve been punished for what you did,” he says. “It’s time to let it go, Spencer. It won’t be happening again.”

He stands up, smoothing his hands against his trousers reflexively. “You might want to go clean yourself up,” he says, nodding his head toward the bathroom. “I’m going to start in on the paperwork.”

Spencer grabs his khakis and heads to the bathroom, splashing water on his face and examining into his red eyes in the mirror. He isn’t entirely sure that he feels any wiser – if anything, he’s still stuck on his colossal stupidity – but he takes a deep breath and lets it out, aware that this realization is the first step.

_**“Do not brood over your past mistakes and failures as this will only fill your mind with grief, regret and depression. Do not repeat them in the future.”**  
\- Swami Sivananda_


End file.
